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When my husband and I began cleaning out our closets and storage areas, I understood that simplifying our space would be more challenging than it appeared. I learned this a couple of years ago, when the task of emptying my parents’ home loomed over me.
My parents weren’t hoarders by any stretch of the imagination. They simply spent nearly 60 years together, living their lives and raising a family in the same home. Nevertheless, if getting rid of clutter isn't a daily focus, stuff tends to accrue. There’s no way around it.
Distributing and donating their belongings was daunting. Some items held incredible value to me, but perceived value had little to do with whether I wanted to keep them. My siblings felt the same way. A 16-by-20-inch black-and-white studio portrait of my brother and sister as babies had been meaningful to our parents, perhaps even to our family. But none of us wanted it. Nor did we think it appropriate to donate or sell such a personal image.
Some things needed to be discarded; others could be donated or sold. But if the day comes when you find yourself looking at all your loved ones’ worldly possessions lined up in a driveway, know that the sight alone can be an emotional blow. And then people start haggling over prices.
I remember breaking down during a sale because someone thought the few cents I’d put on each of my father’s workshop tools was too much. She wanted to buy a box of them for a dollar. I tried to explain the value of the screwdriver that had helped put my favorite childhood toy back together. The shopper saw a cheap tool for her grandson. I saw a memory of my father. We were looking at the same screwdriver, but we weren’t seeing the same thing.
Getting rid of excess doesn’t always mean passing it along to our children. After I retired, I realized I needed a space of my own; a place to write my book and do whatever else I pleased. With our children grown and living on their own, reclaiming one of their former bedrooms seemed reasonable enough. Until I began sorting through the remnants of their childhoods.
I texted pictures of various items to our children, asking if they wanted to keep them. Their indifferent responses surprised me until I realized the scribbles they made at age three held memories for me, not them. I was the only one who remembered the little person behind the crayon marks.
Just a few months ago, I made some pudding with my two-year-old granddaughter, and then we used it as finger paint. I proudly displayed her artwork on the wall. A little too low, as it turned out. Our Australian Shepherd soon discovered the masterpiece and licked it clean!
I worried that if the artwork wasn’t there, my granddaughter might think I didn’t value her creation, or, worse, her. Then I stepped back and considered what we’d actually lost: a warped piece of paper with dried pudding on it. The memory of our time together, the delight of watching her create, and the love I felt for her were still there. The dog had taken care of the artwork, but she couldn’t erase any of that.
Perhaps that’s the distinction we sometimes struggle to make when sorting through our belongings. We attach memories, people, and experiences to the things we keep, until letting go of an object can feel like letting go of a piece of our past. But the memories that make an object precious don’t disappear when the object is gone. We can honor what something means to us without necessarily keeping the thing itself.
We often hear the saying, “You can’t take it with you.” While I don’t plan on going anywhere just yet, I have to wonder how much of what we keep is useful, how much is sentimental, and how much represents a future that may never arrive. My closet is filled with containers labeled 'someday this could be useful.' There’s leftover twine wound into a small ball, a couple of snaps from an earlier project, and assorted craft materials that might come in handy. Someday.
Maybe our closets hold more than our belongings. They hold our histories, our intentions, and our ideas about who we might become. There’s nothing wrong with saving something for a future project or holding on to an object that brings us joy.
But, when we fill every available space with what we’ve been, what we’ve done, and what we might do someday, how much room remains for who we’re becoming?
Maybe the trick is to be more intentional about what we keep and why. We can honor a memory without keeping every object associated with it. We can appreciate the person we once were without saving every remnant of that life. And we can make room for the people and experiences that matter now.
Maybe the next time life feels a little overwhelming, we don’t have to tackle the entire closet, or the entire contents of our minds for that matter. We could start with one drawer, one shelf, or even the dishes in the sink. Sometimes, a small act of putting things in order gives us a little breathing room.
We don’t have to discard our memories to make room for the present, nor abandon every possibility of what might come next. Perhaps we just need to be a little more discerning about what we carry forward. After all, the potential isn’t always in the things we save. Sometimes, it’s in the space we’re willing to make.
And the next time we find ourselves reluctant to let something go, perhaps we could ask ourselves one simple question: Will keeping it propel me forward or hold me back?